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Some time back I started a shared story telling thread, "After the Bomb: "4 Word Story". It ran for 385 posts and was, IMHO, an entertaining experience.

Well, I'd like to see if anyone would be up for another story telling experiment. What I'd like to propose is a thread to share your AtB based flash fiction. For those who don't know what flash fiction is, it is generally seen as a short story of less than 2000 words. Most run from 250 to 1000 words, but other variations - such as nanofiction or microfiction - can run as short as 55 words.

Your stories should include the following elements: protagonist, conflict, obstacles or complications, and resolution. Though, some of these elements may only be hinted at in the very short nano/microfiction stories.

Please keep comment postings to a minimum.

Thanks

PS: These don't have to be great works. So even if you don't feel you have great talent at writing (such as myself), give it a shot anyway.

Bart had waited for hours in the snow covered branches of the pine; waiting for a courier to pass by on the road below. The mutant squirrel had been given the unenviable task of making sure that documents bound for the Empires capitol did not reach their destination. He died quickly from a snipers bullet.

I don't care who you are, as long as you're in space you're always gonna be trapped in an over sized tin can, suckin stale recyc' air, and always lookin down on momma Earth.

I was born here on King Angel, and I was content with life here. The wing kept me busy while growing up, working in the assembly plant or in the docks. I always had food and a place to lay my head, and the occasional relationship. Things seemed good or at least palatable

But then reality sinks in. Around the time I turned 14 I started paying attention to the news and listening past the propaganda and fluff. I started realizing that life in this tin can wasn't as great as I was deluded to believe.

The average life expectancy for a fur who lives on King Angel is 21. That never really meant anything to me before, but then I learned why.

Most fur call it the squeeze. Though nobody really wants to talk about it, I've learned that it's caused because most people's brains can't take living in this tin can for too long. The fortunate ones are able to get work on a freebooter, or buy their own ship and get out. The not-so-fortunate take the "other" ways out--pills, alcohol, or suicide.

I don't know if it's like this on Outcast or Freedom stations, or if it's any better on the Moon, but I just know that before I turn 21, I've gotta get myself outta this place before I become just another statistic.

- Ian Denmark IV (19)

This one is a bit longer than those posted so far, and is really a Part 1 of a series I've been thinking of writing. If there's interest I'll continue it in a separate thread.

John Moonhowler of the Pawnee Wolf tribe crawled carefully up to the top of the hill. The deerskin pants, long flowing black hair, and long wooden spear in his left hand hinted of days long ago. The black assault rifle in his right hand and camouflage flak jacket hinted of a more modern time. The pointed ears, extended muzzle, and fine coat of short hair covering his body, indicating this hunter was as much wolf as man, showed it was a time After the Bomb.

His trained eyes scanned the giant herd of buffalo calmly grazing before him. Supplies had run low on this trek across the Great Plains, and his son needed to eat. The Sioux had told him of this herd, but warned that those who had tried to hunt it never returned. He continued to scan the herd, looking for something specific. Something in the eyes.

There! A set of eyes that are too close to the front of the head. Eyes that "see", instead of just look. Intelligent eyes. This herd has Watchers. Mutants like him, who prefer to live with their animal ancestors. Very dangerous, one wrong move and they'll stampede the entire herd over the top of him, and come back to make sure he was fully stomped to mush.

He takes off his flak jacket and set his rifle on top of it. These modern tools won't help him, he'll have to use the Old Ways. He stands up on the top of the hill, letting the herd see him. He keeps his scent masked by the wind to prevent the animals of the herd from becoming spooked.

The Watcher sees him, and grunts toward the center of the herd. The buffalo begin to part, making way for something large. Moonhowler sees him, the Great Watcher. This old Buffalo is larger than his un-mutated brethren, with large powerful simian limbs. His graying flank showed a collection of battle scars. Spear stabs, bullet wounds, even the telltale burn marks from a laser rifle. He walks away from the herd, defiantly towards the lone hunter.

Moonhowler steps toward the Watcher. When he's a stone's throw away he holds his spear in the air and yells, "See me Watcher of the Herd! I am Moonhowler of the Pawnee! We are equals, and I am here to discuss the Right of the Hunt! See me great Spirit of the Buffalo!"

The Watcher fully stands up revealing his full ten feet of height, dwarfing the slender Wolf. He lets out a mighty bellow and beats his chest with his massive arms. Moonhowler resists the urge to cover his ears. In his mind, he "hears" a voice that seems to come from the center of his head.

"Well met little Wolf!" the Watcher mentally speaks towards Moonhowler. "I am Lostfinder, and this is my Herd! It is a surprise to find someone still versed in the Old Ways. However the rains have been late, and the grass is low. Why should I grant the Right of Hunt in these hard times?"

"Times are hard all over," responds Moonhowler, "and there isn't as many deer in our traditional hunting grounds. I'm taking my family to the forests east of the plains, but we have run out of meat and still have many miles to go".

"Have you none of the potato that tastes like flesh?" questioned Lostfinder. "I know of a farmstead that grows such things within a day's walk from here. There is also much grain, corn, and even some fruit."

"We have a few meat potatoes and much corn, and that will suffice for myself and my wife, but not my young son," replies Moonhowler. "The Spirit of the Wolf is very strong in him, and he requires meat from a hunt. The meat potatoes cause him to be violently ill."

"Very well, the care of the young is most important," responds Lostfinder. "I'll grant the Right of Hunt so you may feed your young Cub. My Herd has an old bull that has taken lame." Moonhowler notes the subtle lowercase on "bull", an animal, not an intelligent mutant. "He has sired many calves in his time, but now can no longer keep up with the herd. You may Hunt him, but you must use the Beast Ways. Tooth and claw, leave your spear behind."

Moonhowler was afraid of this. Even an old lame buffalo can be extremely dangerous when faced unarmed. Worse, he knew there would be a further cost, and according to tradition he must offer to pay it before it is stated. "You are most gracious, oh great Lostfinder! Is there any service I may provide for the Herd?"

Lostfinder nods approvingly. Moonhowler knows his traditions well. "A group of Rats from far to the east traveled through this area in a wagon. They killed a young Calf who had wandered too far from the herd." This enraged Moonhowler when he heard the subtle capitol. To murder a fellow mutant, and a child at that? Unspeakable! "Come little Wolf," continued Lostfinder, "this crime must be avenged! Gather your weapons, we'll Hunt these trespassers together!"

I have a nice piece originally intended for a possible future Rifter submission, but the project kinda fell flat. I don't know how many words it is.

{OK, here goes. This was orignally a intro to a potential Rifter submission I had brewing on my mental back-burner for a while, initially entitled "The Enclave". I may yet post the basics here on the forums & ask for help polishing it up a bit.}

President Thana Foxline tried to make her way to her private office, surrounded by the usual staff members who helped her administrate the nation of Cardania. Although she dressed in a smart-looking robe, her tail still poked out behind her, and it twitched with her growing frustration at being assailed by even the mundane day-to-day reports.
Several of the assistants finally noticed the President’s slightly increasing scowl on her face, that of a North American fox, as she used Old American sign-language to communicate her orders. As each one received their orders and departed with a customary “Thank you, Madame President,” she remained focused on reaching her office.
When she reached the foyer, where her two executive secretaries were stationed, she gave a simple gesture to Samuel, the otter sitting at the right-hand-side desk. With well-rehearsed skill, he rose and intercepted the remaining interns, while Thana simply crossed the double-door threshold of her office, then smoothly closed them behind her.
“That’s all for today, folks, the President will get back to you.” He spread his arms wide, looking almost comical…except for the two large bodyguards who flanked the President’s office doors. The small group grumbled but dispersed.

Once inside, Thana made it as far as her desk—an authentic Pre-Crash mahogany desk, said to have been salvaged from the ruins of the old White House—when her natural sense of smell picked up something, telling her she wasn’t alone.
She stopped herself from slapping the panic button on her desk, which would have alerted the executive secretaries—and the guards outside—just as she recognized one of the scents. It belonged to the person that she had been expecting.

I don’t appreciate the, what did you call them? ‘Old-school theatrics’, she telepathically cast at the nearby curtains. I have not been having a good day.
The tastefully arranged curtains, decorating a faux-window looking out onto a non-existent front lawn, parted and revealed the people she sensed. Two females stepped out into the light coming from the overhead panels. One dressed like a wilderness scout; camouflage pattern pants and form fitting tank top, covered by a four-pocket overshirt, salvaged well-worn military boots, with a hip-level bag. There was no doubt in her mind that this woman still sported several easily accessible weapons that weren’t obvious, even to the President’s acute senses.
The other was dressed almost oppositely; looking like a Cardanian refugee, she wore a simple tan shirt and work-pants, and a simple scarf covered her head. She cradled a bundle in her arms like it was a baby, but she knew, even before the telepathic reply, that the disguise could easily fool those not expecting it. She remembered that these two bodyguards were well-trained Pleasure Bunnies, very rare mutants that could willingly re-shape their forms to be more or less appealing, depending on who they took their commands from. She could also detect the faintest hint of the Bunnies’ pheromones in the air, but they were restraining themselves from overwhelming their host.

I apologize, the male-‘sounding’ voice replied, but sometimes I cannot help indulging myself.
The tan-dressed female, Thana realized that she now labeled her a 'mother', approached to a respectable distance to the politician and moved aside the folds of the blanket wrapping the face of her ‘child’. A pale human-like face peered up at the President, but with wide eyes that almost lacked irises and the head seemed just a little too large for the body….more so that she knew that this was another mutant, the male that she had expected and sensed before.

I could have sent our latest intelligence reports to you by one of my courier agents, but I do so rarely get out into the field these days, the ‘baby’ transmitted. As if on cue, the other female likewise crossed the room and pulled a folder from her bag. About a ¼ inch thick, Thana took the offered folder in her fur-covered left hand.
As she opened it, the leader continued. Although we have heard little from our agents in both Gatorland and Yehcat, several incidents in Technoville have piqued interest, especially their recent drive for a military build-up.
Thana looked through the printed images in front of her. In one, from a point of view that suggested a hidden position, an overweight looking scientist she recognized from previous reports as Professor Sybek, apparently scolding a junior-ranked subordinate, in front of another human wearing some kind of robotic frame with a gun. In another, the self-proclaimed ‘Emperor of Humanity’ himself, Daniel Christian, reviewed the latest batch of genetically altered mutant Canine Rangers in their militia. A third showed the latest tests for the Empire’s variant of the Type 1 robotic armor unit. She shuddered slightly, hoping that she would never have to experience such a machine up close. The file contained a number of papers, written reports of what the photographs confirmed.
Thank you for bringing this to my attention, she transmitted back. I will have my own people investigate this. Any news from the Plains of Free Cattle?
Thana could almost physically hear the telepathic sigh. Unfortunately not. They seem to be dealing with a number of incidents, from several bandit raids in their southern quadrant to rumors of a tribe of mutant human savages attacking civilians. I have some of my best-trained people attempting to discover the truth.
Thana nodded. She had hoped that, by making friendly overtures with the Plains of Free Cattle, they would gain a potential ally in case the Empire of Humanity made a “last-gasp” assault against Cardania and New Sentient life at large. She knew that their leader, Weschek the Wise, was extremely distrustful of humans, and if the news of mutant humans attacking innocent citizens were even remotely true, it would complicate any peace negotiations.
This update, she replied, is disturbing, but it is better to be kept informed.

I agree, replied the ‘baby’ mutant. Sadly, we cannot stay longer. Of the three agents that I sent to investigate rumors of Issac Crow’s near-assassination, only one returned. In a less than talkative frame of mind.
Thana closed her eyes and nodded. She didn’t have to press the subject to understand what he meant.
A moment later, when she opened her eyes and looked back where the others had been, there was only the slight windless rustle of the far curtain & the last hint of the previous pheromones.
President Thana brushed some hair back over her right-side scalp. It was going to be one of those days.

Been trying to come up with another story, so when I saw this picture today I decided to write the first thing that came to mind. It's probably crap, but it's all practice...


It was a wet and miserable Jersey night as I sat on an old crate waiting for my contact to arrive in the alley behind the Run Rabbit Run. My only companions a pair of wild rats diving for scraps in the kitchen dumpster. I don't know how the wild ones can stand the damp, but the cold drizzle seemed to find it's way through my coat and soak my fur underneath. My grandfather used to tell me that from what he remembered from his 'wild' years, before he was 'lifted' by the humans, it was instinctual; that he would just ignore the cold and the damp. Personally, I think he was full of it. He was an old fart and a little soft in the head, but my father believed him and would always listen to his stories over and over again. My father told me that most of the lifted couldn't remember the time before, while they were still wild, or at least they won't talk about it. Makes me glad I'm a third generation 'fur'.

Most of the 'furs' of my generation don't think about it because we're to busy trying to rebuild the ruined remnants of the old human world into a new world of our own design. One where we don't have to live in burrows and nests and kennels like out wild cousins. Those crazy inbred human holdouts up north and their subservient New Kennel lap dogs aren't making our lives any easier though. Most of the humans around here have resigned themselves to the fact that animals have started to take over and that the 'Age of Man' has reached its final chapter, but the Empire of Humanity acts like this planet is their birthright and no 'mutant' animals--lifted or otherwise--are going to take if from them.

I guess that's why I decided to join the Cardanian Intelligence Agency as a field agent. A few years ago, the Empire started sending in covert espionage agents to hamper our progress. Assassinations, sabotage, poisoning water and food supplies, even trying mutagens to reduce the lifted animals back to wild beasts. Their campaign of terror went unchallenged for most of a decade until President Foxline approved the creation of the CIA to combat the phantom threat from the north. A threat the militia families couldn't answer.

So now I sit here in dark alleys in the Contested Lands waiting to receive information from our spies and then deliver it to my superiors for review. It's not a glamorous job, and certainly not a safe one--I have the scars to prove that--but I'm told that we've been able to stop a dozen or so attacks this past year, so I am proud of what I do even if I have to catch pneumonia once in a while.

As I sit in the dark and the wet I keep an eye on the street at the far end of the alley, I chose this location because it's a dead end--only one entrance to the street and one into the kitchen. If there's gonna be any trouble, it'll come from one of those two directions, and then, most likely from the street. The humans and dogs they send after us are usually not very creative and almost always go for the frontal assault. Once they sent a sniper, but dogs don't tend to know what the meaning of the word, 'stealth'. He made such a racket accessing the roof across the street from the meeting spot that night that my contact was able to sneak up behind him and take him out before he had his rifle fully assembled. I still have that gun back at my apartment as a memento.

Finally, at half past midnight the light thud of cat paws landing on the corrugated steel awning over the taverns rear entrance announced the arrival of my contact. Steve was one of the few who didn't shed their wild forms when they were lifted. This was a huge asset to the agency, since most Humans won't give an animal a second glance, unless it's doing something obviously uncharacteristic for a wild one. Steven was a pro though. Even when we meet up in a safe spot like this one, he won't drop the pretense of being a wild feline until he's absolutely sure the area is clear. On more than a couple occasions he's even fooled me.

Finally sure that we are not being observed, Steve hops onto the crate next to me and shakes the damp from his fur. I half-seriously ask if he was followed, and receive a cold feline stare in reply. Sometimes I think Steve is going to forget that he's more than a wild cat. After the exchange of code phrases I slipped the collar from around his neck and removed the microfilm tucked inside. I placed my prize in the concealed compartment in the butt of my knife and tossed a small plastic wrapped gift onto the crate at his paws, which he snatched up in his mouth before leaping down to the alley floor and skittering out into the night.

With my package retrieved I shook the wet from my coat and left the alley to enter the tavern through the front door. I had a few hours before my ride back to Cardania would arrive and the Bunnies at the Run Rabbit Run were a nice way to pass the time.

Fubarius wrote:This one is a bit longer than those posted so far, and is really a Part 1 of a series I've been thinking of writing. If there's interest I'll continue it in a separate thread.

John Moonhowler of the Pawnee Wolf tribe crawled carefully up to the top of the hill. The deerskin pants, long flowing black hair, and long wooden spear in his left hand hinted of days long ago. The black assault rifle in his right hand and camouflage flak jacket hinted of a more modern time. The pointed ears, extended muzzle, and fine coat of short hair covering his body, indicating this hunter was as much wolf as man, showed it was a time After the Bomb.

His trained eyes scanned the giant herd of buffalo calmly grazing before him. Supplies had run low on this trek across the Great Plains, and his son needed to eat. The Sioux had told him of this herd, but warned that those who had tried to hunt it never returned. He continued to scan the herd, looking for something specific. Something in the eyes.

There! A set of eyes that are too close to the front of the head. Eyes that "see", instead of just look. Intelligent eyes. This herd has Watchers. Mutants like him, who prefer to live with their animal ancestors. Very dangerous, one wrong move and they'll stampede the entire herd over the top of him, and come back to make sure he was fully stomped to mush.

He takes off his flak jacket and set his rifle on top of it. These modern tools won't help him, he'll have to use the Old Ways. He stands up on the top of the hill, letting the herd see him. He keeps his scent masked by the wind to prevent the animals of the herd from becoming spooked.

The Watcher sees him, and grunts toward the center of the herd. The buffalo begin to part, making way for something large. Moonhowler sees him, the Great Watcher. This old Buffalo is larger than his un-mutated brethren, with large powerful simian limbs. His graying flank showed a collection of battle scars. Spear stabs, bullet wounds, even the telltale burn marks from a laser rifle. He walks away from the herd, defiantly towards the lone hunter.

Moonhowler steps toward the Watcher. When he's a stone's throw away he holds his spear in the air and yells, "See me Watcher of the Herd! I am Moonhowler of the Pawnee! We are equals, and I am here to discuss the Right of the Hunt! See me great Spirit of the Buffalo!"

The Watcher fully stands up revealing his full ten feet of height, dwarfing the slender Wolf. He lets out a mighty bellow and beats his chest with his massive arms. Moonhowler resists the urge to cover his ears. In his mind, he "hears" a voice that seems to come from the center of his head.

"Well met little Wolf!" the Watcher mentally speaks towards Moonhowler. "I am Lostfinder, and this is my Herd! It is a surprise to find someone still versed in the Old Ways. However the rains have been late, and the grass is low. Why should I grant the Right of Hunt in these hard times?"

"Times are hard all over," responds Moonhowler, "and there isn't as many deer in our traditional hunting grounds. I'm taking my family to the forests east of the plains, but we have run out of meat and still have many miles to go".

"Have you none of the potato that tastes like flesh?" questioned Lostfinder. "I know of a farmstead that grows such things within a day's walk from here. There is also much grain, corn, and even some fruit."

"We have a few meat potatoes and much corn, and that will suffice for myself and my wife, but not my young son," replies Moonhowler. "The Spirit of the Wolf is very strong in him, and he requires meat from a hunt. The meat potatoes cause him to be violently ill."

"Very well, the care of the young is most important," responds Lostfinder. "I'll grant the Right of Hunt so you may feed your young Cub. My Herd has an old bull that has taken lame." Moonhowler notes the subtle lowercase on "bull", an animal, not an intelligent mutant. "He has sired many calves in his time, but now can no longer keep up with the herd. You may Hunt him, but you must use the Beast Ways. Tooth and claw, leave your spear behind."

Moonhowler was afraid of this. Even an old lame buffalo can be extremely dangerous when faced unarmed. Worse, he knew there would be a further cost, and according to tradition he must offer to pay it before it is stated. "You are most gracious, oh great Lostfinder! Is there any service I may provide for the Herd?"

Lostfinder nods approvingly. Moonhowler knows his traditions well. "A group of Rats from far to the east traveled through this area in a wagon. They killed a young Calf who had wandered too far from the herd." This enraged Moonhowler when he heard the subtle capitol. To murder a fellow mutant, and a child at that? Unspeakable! "Come little Wolf," continued Lostfinder, "this crime must be avenged! Gather your weapons, we'll Hunt these trespassers together!"

Nicely done.

Hopefully you'll accept some TMNT fic in place of any AtB fic. Anyway, here goes.

Garbaad stood tall and straight before the General’s desk, careful to remain at attention yet not let his immense horns scrape the ceiling. Being indoors had never suited him well, to many low ceilings and narrow hallways. Tall mountain peaks and wild open places were in his blood. Outside is where he belonged. But a good soldier follows orders, and Garbaad was counted among best of the very best.

“At ease Major, I’ll not keep you long,” said the General. “As you are aware, at the President’s recommendation, Congress has ordered an immediate RIF. Those not considered especially essential or close to or past retirement eligibility are unfortunately scheduled for the first line of redactions. Regretfully it is my duty to inform you that you have been included in that grouping Major Tanngnjóstr. However, in light of your exemplary service record with the 75th Ranger Regiment and Special Forces Unit F.A.B.L.E, SOCOM along with the Secretary of Defense has decided that while officially listed as retired you and your entire unit will be subject to active duty recall for situations requiring your unique skill set and MOS. During your “retirement”, you will retain full pay scale and military benefits as befitting your rank. Also you will report to Ft. Campbell, KY for drill the same as if you were a reservist. Do you have any questions?”

“Ye eh ehs Sir. Why aaam Iiii being re-staaationed to Ft. Caaaampbell, raaaather thaaan remaAAAin here aaat Ft. Braaagg or go baaaack to Ft. Beeenning with the 75th,” Garbaad asked trying to control the bleat in his voice?

“With the RIF, your “official” retirement, and the subsequent disbanding of your unit it wouldn’t look right to have you still living in the same place as when you were on full active duty. It was my recommendation that you be stationed at Ft. Campbell in order to allow you to train with the 5th Special Forces Group to keep you in serviceable shape should the need to recall you ever arise. Also, with the passage of the Sentient Beings Act we’ve got to make every attempt to help integrate you into civilian life. The last thing the Army needs is any kind of interference from some liberal civil rights fanatics. I understand that you’re adoptive family lives in south western Indiana. That should make the transition easier for you,” the General answered. “If that will be all, you’re dismissed Major.”

Garbaad nodded. It’s not like there was much to say, orders were orders. It was some reassurance that his forced retirement was just for show. While living as a civilian would be different, it wasn’t anything he couldn’t handle. Having first been a Ranger and then specially selected for the formation of F.A.B.L.E. dealing with changing situations and overcoming unexpected obstacles was a routine thing.

As he turned to leave the room Garbaad felt a rough jostle and was then hit hard enough to knock him horns over hooves. His head was throbbing and foggy, he could feel the rough (?) texture of the Generals office floor under his chest, and feel a cool breeze blowing across his bare (!?) body. ‘For F*&(k’s sake,’ he thought ‘some boot must have lost control and driven a deuce & a half through the Generals office.’ He could hear the sound of a heavy diesel engine driving away and smell the exhaust heavy in the air. As his mind fought to clear the thought to himself, ‘must have knocked me through the f$%(king wall,’ it was the only way to explain the wood lodged between his horns and sticking him in the ribs. ‘First things first,’ he though ‘have to make sure the General is ok.’

As he opened his eyes and struggled to push himself off the ground, several things occurred to Garbaad all at once. First, this wasn’t the Generals office. He was on his hands and knees in the middle of a blacktop road. Second, he hadn’t been knocked through a wall, but rather seemed to be tangled in the remains of a busted shipping crate. Thirdly, someone seemed to be screaming and cursing at him in heavily accented English and what he thought might be Russian. And finally, he was cheeks to the wind goat a$$ed naked!

Freeing himself from the debris of the broken crate and quickly scanning the area for danger, Garbaad went to see who or what was screaming at him from the intact undamaged crate just up the road from where he came to. Whatever it was it was clearly in a furious state of agitation. Though the slats on the crate he could make out that it was a golden brown color with white markings and also without any apparent clothing.

“Huurrrry comrade! Geyt me owuut off zese клеть befoor thosze мудак in zee trook coomz back,” it screamed at him!

Throwing open the hasp on the crate and lifting the lid back Garbaad watched in mild surprise as the largest mutant hamster he’d ever seen in his life crawled out onto the pavement. It stood up shakily on its hind legs, and pointed to a stand of trees off to the side of the road.

“Ve moost goo! Eez no time for standing in middle of улица veeth oor пенис svinking een breese,” said the hamster thing as it made a crude grab at its crotch. Laughing at his own joke, the hamster dropped to all fours and scampered off for the cover of the trees. For lack of a better plan and silently agreeing that standing naked in the middle of the road wasn’t the best of ideas, Garbaad followed.

As he followed the hamster to the tree line Garbaad wondered to himself, ‘of all places how did he come to be laying naked in the middle of the street, why couldn’t he remember anything. And who would be so stupid as to strip and stuff a former Special Forces Operator and Army Ranger into a crate in the first place? Well, whoever it was, they’d bought themselves a world of hurt that they could scarcely image.”

Paul sighed as the rifle slid off his shoulder and fell in a perfect half circle to his shoulder. The scope pulling in the image a possum kneeling down to pick up his buckets of water on a yoke. Pauls finger slide of the trigger, the sound of the rifle would surely attract the wrong kind of attention. So many miles left to go till he made it back to his family in the empire. Crowtched down he waited and waited, the dark reminding him the mence of mutant could see all that much better than him.

For the empire he had to make it back only he knew what the hordes of mice had planned for what used to be Florida and it had to be stoped.

Zamion138 wrote:Paul sighed as the rifle slid off his shoulder and fell in a perfect half circle to his shoulder. The scope pulling in the image a possum kneeling down to pick up his buckets of water on a yoke. Pauls finger slide of the trigger, the sound of the rifle would surely attract the wrong kind of attention. So many miles left to go till he made it back to his family in the empire. Crowtched down he waited and waited, the dark reminding him the mence of mutant could see all that much better than him.

For the empire he had to make it back only he knew what the hordes of mice had planned for what used to be Florida and it had to be stoped.

mice..florida...This isn't near the ruins of Orlando is it?

CyCo wrote:Rise from the grave!

That was one of my favorite games when i was kid.

The Oh So Amazing Nate wrote:

Zamion138 wrote:Paul sighed as the rifle slid off his shoulder and fell in a perfect half circle to his shoulder. The scope pulling in the image a possum kneeling down to pick up his buckets of water on a yoke. Pauls finger slide of the trigger, the sound of the rifle would surely attract the wrong kind of attention. So many miles left to go till he made it back to his family in the empire. Crowtched down he waited and waited, the dark reminding him the mence of mutant could see all that much better than him.

For the empire he had to make it back only he knew what the hordes of mice had planned for what used to be Florida and it had to be stoped.

mice..florida...This isn't near the ruins of Orlando is it?

To be honest didnt even think that detailed just kinda figured nothing is scarier than hordes and mice and rats breed ultra fast and use up alot of rescources so thats where i took the story